The Weight of Memory
by Theolyn
Summary: Unbeknownst to the wizarding world, Severus Snape survived the final battle. In the intervening decades he has built a beautiful, simple life for himself. Hermione Granger has spent years looking for him. What will happen when they find each other? Story is complete, but will be published in serial. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Severus Snape was caring for his forest.

Laying a long-fingered hand upon the bark of a redwood, he used his magic to establish the soundness of the root system. He would assess each of the three trees most likely to surrender in the coming storm. This second one, he felt, would be fine. Nodding in satisfaction, he patted the old giant affectionately and moved on.

Threading his way carefully through the underbrush, he returned to the main trail. It would need repair, certainly, once the storm came through. Such things no longer bothered him. The area by the footbridge had always been prone to washing out. He'd repaired it before…although not for years.

Today, hopefully, the drought would end. Not that one storm could erase four years of scarcity. Reservoirs across the state were below their historical low points. But behind this storm was another, and a third forming. Current offshore conditions pointed towards a healthy snow season in the Sierras. And that was a key. A winter full of snow would yield a spring replete with snowmelt. So, with luck, this past summer with its endless sunshine and threat of fire would demark the apex of the pendulum swing.

He breathed in deeply, earthy scents of laurel and redwood mixing with the tang of ozone. The storm would be a dramatic one; there was temper in the air. He increased his speed, walking the carpet of fallen needles with long strides, yet he was not hurried. He knew this forest better than the planes of his own body. He had time yet to make the third tree and return home before the rains began. And if he miscalculated, and the rains beat him home? Well, he'd always loved to be in his forest in the rain.

As he walked, he noted that rising humidity had brought the smaller denizens of the forest out in numbers. The salamanders, the obstreperous banana slugs, even a few brave frogs were already active, eagerly anticipating the coming deluge. The drought had been a long one, and though this one shower could not hope to slake the earth's thirst, still, everything that lived was tense, greedy with anticipation.

He reached the third ailing giant and once again pressed palm to bark. Trees often felt inanimate, their life force too diffuse to register. But these redwoods were different. Like the Womping Willow at Hogwarts, each felt almost sentient to his probe. He could feel this one's centuries of life, could feel its great patience, could feel its own awareness of the approaching storm, and its own resignation that this storm would be its last.

Severus Snape sighed. This tree would not survive the storm.

They were all beautiful, his Sequoia Semprevirens. But this giant was the oldest in his forest. It had grown from this slope, at its outrageous angle for the better part of two hundred years. But now its roots were no longer strong enough to hold its one hundred fifty feet of height anchored into the soil. And its will, its own peculiar magic, had run dry with the drought. It was ready.

He could, of course, reinforce those roots with a spell; buy the giant another season or two. But he would not do the being that disservice. The tree's time had come. He'd seen himself the consequences when humans meddled with a normal lifespan. Some things in this world were fungible, but life, and death, were not. He'd not be a party to evading the inevitable. Not ever again. Not even for this magnificent creature.

But as this tree towered on the slope behind his home, he could not afford to leave the inevitable to nature. His home was fully warded of course. But wards functioned largely upon intent. Were a wizard to attempt to breach his defenses by smashing a redwood down upon him, he and his tool would explode instantly in a shower of kindling. But if Mother Nature, with her profound indifference, did the same thing, well, perhaps the wards would hold, and perhaps not. And so, he pressed a hand to the bark, and spoke, his voice soft and deep. "You were mighty and you were beautiful. And it is your time now. I will give you a painless death. Goodbye, friend" He patted the bark one last time. Felt a pulse of something like acquiescence. Then, though it saddened him, he drew his wand and severed the tree from the earth. He stepped aside, and let it fall.

A thunder of a sound. And then quiet.

When the tree had been safely felled, he pressed a hand again to its bark, and felt…nothing. The being that had grown, breathed and expired on his mountain, was no longer. He looked at its corpse, and considered, briefly, cutting it for his woodpile. Though it would be several days work, the redwood would burn hot and long, and warm him throughout the winter. He did not think the old tree would begrudge him that.

But this was his forest. The tree had for centuries taken nutrients from this soil. To this soil those nutrients must return. And so he shifted leaf litter and rocks, used magic to settle the hulk properly, ensuring that the wooden shell was well wedged into its new position. There it would stay… until it was gone. He would enjoy watching the fungi and the lichens join the insects in returning this great hulk to the forest floor. It would take a decade or so, but eventually, this giant would dissolve into the forest that birthed it. As it should be.

At peace with his decision, Severus Snape continued upwards, following the trail to its conclusion, his meadow. Whatever force had cleared the trees from this horseshoe-shaped patch of land, it had done so long before the land had come to his keeping. The scars of the clearing no longer showed. And now, it was to his mind, the heart of his forest. It was here, out from under the near-dark of the canopy, that native grasses grew. It was here that the deer brought their fawns in the spring to feed, here that the wildflowers exploded in their riot of short-lived color. And it was here that the drought had been felt most keenly.

What in most years was a carpet of native grasses was now a pan of cracked earth interspersed with dry brown stems. And yet, though it suffered, it was not dead. He could press a palm to the earth and feel it…waiting. And in that waiting, it was still, to his eyes, beautiful.

From his vantage point at the meadow's highest hill, he could see all the hillsides to the south. He could gaze at the dark smudge of forest, his forest, and the forest that surrounded his. Across a shallow valley he could see the pastureland of the organic farm. There were no grazing animals today, undoubtedly, they had already been rounded up for shelter. But many days there would be small puffs of sheep wandering their own gentle hills like clouds in a still sky. Save for the power lines that crossed that vantage point, he could see no man-made structures. It reassured him, and made him feel as if his life might actually proceed without the intervention and drama of humanity. That was a pipe dream, he knew, for those who lived in his small community still insisted on imposing human contact upon him on an infrequent, but regular basis. But that was endurable. Mostly, his life was simple, made of trees and hills and forest and dog.

A distant rumble brought his attention back to the task at hand. He mustn't tarry. Check the pond. Then return home.

Beyond the bend in the meadow lay a small, picturesque pond. He had built it there, in a hollow where water naturally accumulated during wet years. He did not, as a rule, like to meddle in the processes of nature; meddling always had unforeseen consequences.

But by June, the deer who grazed the meadow and above had begun to move lower, searching relentlessly for better food. Does, their fawns only just losing the spots of their babyhood, had begun severely testing the construction of his garden fencing. Salamanders had begun to crawl into his hot tub, searching for a place to lay their eggs, only to be found, boiled, the next morning. At first, he'd accepted it. Nature was, after all, a harsh mistress.

But then one of his dark periods descended.

Oh, yes, he still had them, though the war in which they were rooted was almost twenty-five years over. Posttraumatic stress, he'd self-diagnosed. And not without reason. If anyone's life could have been described as a traumatic stress, it would have been his, from the agonies of his abusive childhood, to his willful actions as a death eater, to his unwilling actions during his years of dual servitude. The culmination of his near death at the hands of a giant viper had put the icing on the traumatic cake, so to speak. That he wasn't a quivering mass of patheticness was the mystery, not the fact that he still endured the emotional backlash of his experiences from time to time.

At any rate, in June, when the backlash rose again, with those dark memories crashing about in his brain like a stinging lash, the need to DO something had also risen like a fountain of purpose.

And so he'd come to the meadow's former damp spot with his shovel, and he'd dug, and he'd dug and he'd dug. He used no magic, preferring to let the discomfort and sweat and effort of physical toil beneath the relentless sun leach away the worst of his internal madness. He fashioned the hole deep enough to succor fish, lest the insect population run rampant. Then he fashioned shallow edges so that the frogs and salamanders could easily climb free once their spawning was done. And finally, following the existing wildlife trail, he smoothed an approach for the deer to reach the water to drink.

Three days it took. Muscles quivering, scars screaming, he'd surveyed the work, and felt satisfaction. And when he'd probed heart and head, he'd found that somewhere in the past three days, the worst of the darkness had passed. But the job at hand was not done. This earth may have once held water…but it wouldn't do so now.

So, though he loathed shopping, he climbed into his battered pickup, and drove twenty miles to the town of Ben Lomond, to Al's Garden Supply Store.

He returned with a pond liner, several bags of mosquito fish, and a flat of native pond vegetation, and settled down to the business of turning a hole into a pond.

He had used magic to fill his pond… from his own emergency cistern. Then he'd carefully scattered the topsoil he'd salvaged from the site into the pond, in case there were vernal pond denizens still slumbering in the top inches of soil. He planted the vegetation, carefully, one plant at a time. All the while watching the bags of little fish bobbing about on the water's surface. Then when the work was done, he'd released them, pleased when they dispersed to every corner of their new home.

Now this storm would come, and it would test the pond's structure. He believed it would hold. The liner was buried deep, and the soil around it seemed to have settled in to its task of holding fast. And if it failed? Well, if it failed, it would have served its purpose, wouldn't it? Getting the fauna through the drought's harshest days. If it failed, he would still have the satisfaction of knowing it had been of service to some of the world's more delicate creatures.

He crossed the meadow. From habit, he moved silently even here. A muffliato on his feet kept even the dry stems of the grasses from betraying his presence. After so many years of subterfuge, he found that he was still incapable of rendering himself easily heard. And that is why, he later thought, _she_ did not hear him coming.

She blended in beautifully with the sere grasses around her. Which explained why he did not see _her_ until he was a scant dozen feet away from the pond's edge.

Holding his breath, Severus Snape froze.

She was magnificent. Though the drought was evident in the dull cast to her coat, and the leanness of her flank, her body still radiated vitality. She lifted her face from the water's edge, and turned to face him, feline eyes glittering with undaunted wildness. The mountain lion would fight, he knew, if he forced her to. And if she did, even his wand would not keep him unscathed.

But he did not want to fight her, did not want to chance inadvertently harming such a miraculous creature. Hopefully, if he made his submission clear, she would simply drink her fill before taking cover from the storm.

Slowly, while keeping his eyes on her, he dropped his focus, so as not to issue challenge, and slipped his wand from his sleeve. He hoped not to use it. Methodically, he backed away across his meadow. The lioness watched him until he moved out of sight.

Back on the trail, a protective charm cast to protect his back, he took a deep breath and began his trek home. He was surprised to find his body shaking from adrenaline.

A mountain lion. In his forest.

She did not live here. He would have known if she had; some scat, or paw print, or leftover meal would have revealed her before now. No. She was just another victim of the drought, passing through, pushed out of her deep forest home as her prey sought better fodder.

Having her here would complicate his life immensely. As long as she stayed, he would be sharing his territory with another alpha predator. He would need to add a layer to his wards, lest she come upon him unawares. And his chicken coop. That would need reinforcing. And the deer. No. He'd not give the deer protection. They were her natural prey, and thanks to his pond, there were too many of those for the meadow to support. He'd considered some culling himself; he'd let the lioness take what she would. But she'd not take Milo. He'd already warded Milo to keep him safe from coyotes. That should keep the lioness out as well, but he'd add a layer geared towards felines, just to be certain. The worst of it was that there would be no more wandering in his woods without wand in hand. He could live with that.

He hoped she'd stay.

SSSSS

Author's Note: Welcome to the new story, everyone. I'm trying something different this time. Rather than making the process fully collaborative, and changing the tale based upon the feedback of my readers, I have a complete draft of this one in place. This doesn't mean that I won't adjust the story as you inspire me to do so, but it does mean that it is unlikely that I will need to abandon the story midway through the process. Hopefully, this insurance policy will compensate for having slightly less input to the story's progress. I hope you enjoy it!

Warmly,

Theolyn


	2. A Storm Rolls In

_Today's Post is dedicated to Alan. Thank you, Mr. Rickman. Thank You…_

These directions, Hermione grumbled to herself, were for shite. "Go two miles, then take the sharper right after a sharp right after a big curve." The whole bloody road was on a mountain, wasn't it? There was nothing but curves. And now that the rain had moved in visibility was bollocks. She supposed it was probable that by now, at the three mile mark, she'd passed the turnoff. More than likely, he'd put a notice-me-not on the road to MAKE it hard to find. She grinned at the thought.

When had she gone from hoping that she'd found Severus Snape to being sure of it?

Well it hadn't been three years ago, when, searching through the IMM currency exchange ledgers she'd noted an entry showing the conversion of a modest sum of money from Galleons to American Dollars. Though the date had been perfect, roughly one week after the battle of Hogwarts, and the name had been tantalizing, Tobias Evans, she hadn't been certain then.

She hadn't been certain when she discovered that Mr. Evans, who'd purchased an expensive official portkey passage to Vancouver seemed to have failed to appear…or at least, no one who took that multi-stage journey (book to the Azores, shoe to Halifax, two litre bucket to Vancouver) could remember anyone of any description sharing any part of the arduous trip with them, even with her memory enhancements.

She hadn't been certain when she discovered that Mr. Evans had purchased an old hulk of a pickup truck, (when enhanced the muggle used-salesmen recalled started as if by magic under Mr. Evan's hand; obviously his memory wipe had been more perfunctory.) Even when she'd discovered that Mr. Evans had passed up a perfectly lovely red model for a rusted hulk of forest green, even then, she hadn't been certain.

Then, the trail of Tobias Evans had disappeared. So. She'd followed the truck.

Its stickers had been renewed in Seattle. A few months later, a deed of sale (which subsequently proved to be an excellent forgery) had been processed in San Francisco, transferring ownership to a non-descriptly named Josiah Jones. Non-descript, unless you knew the name of the man she was hunting. He couldn't reclaim that name, but the rhythm; the alliteration could be his once again. Josiah Jones. Somehow, it fit.

But even then she hadn't been certain.

She hadn't even been certain at the beginning of the summer when the APB on the green truck finally yielded a hit, at a garden store in Ben Lomond, California, and the officer described the driver as tall, early middle age, lanky of build, with dark hair silvering at the temples, and dressed in black jeans and a black tee shirt.

Oh, she'd hoped. Both of them had hoped. Ever since the night of Ron's wake, when Harry had confessed that the body he'd carried into the great hall with such ceremony had been a snatcher, temporarily transfigured to resemble the fallen potionsmaster. Of course, the power of the Elder Wand had been such that the glamour had outlasted the burial of the body, and the disappearance of the original had gone unnoticed. Only Harry had known that Professor Snape had survived.

Yes, ever since then she'd hoped. But she hadn't known. All summer, while she'd arranged her cover story, cleared her schedule, planned her trip out, she had hoped. But she had not been certain. Not until now. Now? Instinct was screaming at her.

He…was…alive.

The feeling was almost strong enough for her to turn around. After all, all she'd ever wanted was to know. But she'd come this far, driven initially by grief and later by hope and a longing for something she couldn't quite define. She'd take the final step. She would lay her eyes on the man who had been hero and tormentor in her life's first great quest. She would see for herself that he had, in fact, survived his hell.

She turned her rental car into the rain, making a hasty U turn, and began retracing her path. Using her magical senses, she looked not for the poorly described road, but simply for a spot that she didn't quite want to look at. When she found it, she almost cheered. Definitely a notice-me-not. Grinning, she turned in.

SSSS

His preparatory duties complete, Severus Snape stood on the deck of his home and watched the rain sluice down off the eaves. Now that what he cared for was protected, he did not fear the storm. Like the earth, he welcomed it.

He bent to untie his hiking boots, and slipped shoes and socks from his feet. Milo, his aesthetically challenged, but undeniably loving mutt dog, looked on contemptuously as he removed the remainder of his clothes.

"Are you coming?" Snape asked him, already knowing the answer. "You know you love the hot tub."

Milo may have loved the hot tub, but he most certainly did not like the rain. The drought had been heaven for him and he greatly resented its end. Milo sniffed, turned in place once, then, his opinion made crystal clear, nosed the screen door open, disappearing into the warm house.

Chuckling, Severus Snape braced himself, and walked out from under the eaves. Entirely nude, he spread his arms and let icy needles of water hit his skin. He would meet this storm, he thought, with pleasure. As the first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, his laughter was pure and true. What a pleasure it was to live.

An hour later, the storm was pulsing in earnest. His muscles, which had been tense from the day's exertions, were now pliant and loose from the ministrations of his cedar tub. He'd mourned the loss of the aged redwood tub last year, but its stern refusal to hold water, even with magical help, had finally caused its retirement. He smiled. That hot tub, already old when he'd arrived, had been the first pleasure he'd allowed himself in his new life. It had begun his process of learning that he needn't suffer without succor. It had disabused him of the faulty notion that there could be no achievement without pain. It was a simple concept, but it had been utterly foreign in his previous life. Strange now, to think of it. But no matter. He knew now. He'd raise a glass to the redwood tub now, if he had one.

A glass. Now that was an idea. He vaguely considered summoning his favorite bottle of single malt. But that wasn't what he truly wanted. It was at times like this, the icy rain pounding upon his head, the hot water soaking in to his musculature, that he most missed the spicy tang of a good firewhiskey. Oh, he could distill it himself, but during the hot days of mid-summer, when the finicky drink must be brewed, it always seemed such a lot of trouble. After all, he craved it only in truly cold weather, of which, on his mountain, there was shockingly little. But, he decided, at a moment like this, that pleasure would be worth the effort. This year, he would bottle some for future storms.

Warm, and loose, and considering the merits of various replacement intoxicants, he was so mellow that he couldn't even find it within him to be annoyed when a trill ran over his wards, and was quickly followed by a pair of headlights making their tortured way up his treacherous and rutted private drive. A neighbor with a problem, undoubtedly. Though he was older in years than most of his community, his apparent youth meant he was often on call whenever there were burdens to carry, domestic animals to rescue, or technological catastrophes to be undone. Such tasks were then rewarded with gifts of fresh baked pastry, or casseroles of one sort or another. Since he had not been answering his mobile, no doubt someone had come to seek his assistance in person. Perhaps there would be pie. Pumpkin pie. That wouldn't go amiss. Not at all.

Though there wasn't a single one of his aging hippy neighbors who would be surprised to see that he tubbed in the nude, he summoned a towel and wrapped it tightly about his hips. It seemed the polite thing to do…and it gave him a place to stash his wand in the unlikely case that he might need it.

As he reached his driveway, the car reached its destination. He'd purposefully ended his drive many yards from his deck. Forcing arrivals to walk those final feet gave him time to identify the person approaching, time he often needed to prepare himself for interaction. The majority of his neighbors were laconic and respectful, made the additional adjustment time unnecessary. But three had large personalities, making preparation for their invasion a necessity. Of course, it was one of those three, Mrs. Egan, who was the best baker of the lot, so though she drained him to no end, there were certainly recompenses for her arrival.

But this was not Mrs. Egan's aubergine Subaru. In fact, he did not recognize this particular vehicle at all. It was a late model compact car; a rental? A lost tourist then? Heaven help him, with the weather this bad, he'd have to put him up for the night. Annoyance raised its ugly head. Then the door swung open, and a small, tidily dressed woman stepped into the rain. His nostrils flared. No, not woman. Witch. And a bloody powerful one too. But obviously one that meant him no harm, as his wards had barely twitched.

Nonetheless, the idea of witch or wizard penetrating the bubble of his sanctuary raised in him a rage that had long been his companion but had lately slumbered.

Eyes almost blind with fury, he surged forward. He swiftly crossed the empty space, pinning the witch to the side of her car. Adrenaline and fury coursed through him as he drilled the tip of his wand in to the soft flesh of her neck.

"Who are you?" He rasped. "And what are you doing here?"

In a blur, the witch pivoted, executed a rather spectacular non-verbal that simultaneously disarmed him, numbed his entire body, and warded him against executing non-verbals. With minimal physical effort on her part, their positions were now reversed, and he was utterly incapacitated. And then she smiled sunnily.

"Hello professor! I'm Hermione Weasley. And I'm here to see you."

SSSSS

Author's note: When I was writing this story, Mr. Theolyn was my primary plot beta. And he was very concerned by the balance of power in the story between witch and wizard. In a culture that is so very loose with the concept of consent between man and woman, I am honored to have a partner who cares about these areas so keenly. But while I feel a responsibility to make mindful choices in that area as I write, (all lemons in my story are consensual.) I am dealing with a character who has dwelled in the grey areas all of his life. This Severus will be neither a perfect man nor a perfect mate (at least not in the parts we get to see). Please take this is an invitation for discussion in your reviews. I would truly love to hear your reactions and your thoughts concerning issues of gender balance in the story.

Of course, if that stuff is not your cup of tea, and you simply want to wallow in lemons, well, that's legitimate too. Rest assured, the lemons are not far off. Have at it, and enjoy!

Warmly,

Theolyn

Addendum: I have just read the news. As of this morning, Alan Rickman has gone on to King's Cross Station. He was a masterful artist, and he was sexy as hell. Given how I felt about Snape in the novels, I'm convinced that no one else could have played him in the movies. I felt a thrill every time he came on-screen. Still do. Thank you Alan, for making my favorite character come to life, and giving him a depth that has inspired all of us to continue reading and writing about him.

Travel well, and know that you are remembered.


	3. Tea (part one)

He was alive, Hermione thought to herself, and she was sitting at his kitchen table, watching him make tea. Alive. Gods. What a beautiful word that was, wasn't it?

He wasn't exactly…happy to see her, granted. She hadn't expected him to be, particularly since she'd been forced to disarm him in his own driveway. She'd probably have to pay for that with him at some point. But what else could she have done with his wand at her throat? Never mind. He was alive. She'd deal with the consequences.

And once her arrival had been sorted out, the invitation he'd given to her to enter his home hadn't exactly dripped warmth. But this was the professor she was talking about. What had she expected? Violins? She'd expected him to be miffed, or worse, at being discovered.

So while she hadn't been surprised that things had come to wandpoint, she had been surprised by one thing… finding herself pressed against her car by the professor's irate, half-naked and soaking-wet flesh. Unknowingly, she made a deep sound in her throat. It figured. Her treacherous body, which had been sleepwalking since her husband's death three years ago, had jumped to instant, salacious attention at the contact with the professor's lean, muscular frame. At the moment, she was finding that distracting at best, and outrageously inconvenient.

Even now, when he was fully clothed in jeans (had his bum improved, or had it always been that nice under all of his Hogwart's billow?) and a white button-down shirt rolled to the elbows and was seemingly exclusively focused upon the ritual of proper tea preparation, she still felt absurdly aroused. Perhaps, given the nature of her feelings for him at Hogwarts, she should have foreseen that she'd find him…attractive. But that part of her had been so quiescent since Ron's death. Just her luck to have it return to life now. Bloody hell.

Severus Snape turned with his tray, and looked straight at Hermione's eyes. She immediately dropped them; he was, she knew, an accomplished legilimens…best to keep her thoughts of salacious nature properly occluded.

He set a colorful tray on the table in front of her. A celadon blue tea pot. Two hand-thrown mugs with a turquoise glaze. Two varieties of seemingly home-made biscuits on a plate the color of freshly turned earth. Heavy cream in a sunny yellow creamer. A small orange dish of sugar lumps. And a simple crystal decanter of whiskey that sparkled in the firelight. A bone colored bowl carrying thick wedges of persimmon. It was mismatched, but every item on the tray was beautiful and well-crafted. Together, it made up one of the most aesthetically pleasing, if informal, teas she'd ever been served.

"That's so lovely!" She exclaimed.

He shrugged an indolent shoulder and growled. "I have standards, even for uninvited guests. How do you take it?"

He took no pains not to conceal the animosity in his voice. It irked him, still, that she'd gotten the better of him. It was not the fact that _she'd_ been able to best him that bothered him, but the fact that _anyone_ had been. He conceded that she'd obviously become vastly more skilled than she had been, that bodybind with a nonverbal ward was clever indeed, but nonetheless, it was a sign that he had, in fact, allowed his readiness to flag here in his retreat. He'd suspected as much, but to have it proven to him in such a way? Inexcusable. Her mere appearance here was evidence enough that his readiness must be maintained. The magical world, which he had so successfully evaded for decades, could at any moment descend upon his mountain and drag him back into its morass of myopic stupidity. His face clenched at the thought.

Meanwhile, the witch had the audacity to look at him with such…fondness. She was so bloody happy to be sitting at his table, awaiting her tea. Well, she wouldn't be happy for long, would she?

"Cream please, with two sugars." She said.

His reply was absolutely deadpan. "Two? Revolting. Irish?"

The witch looked at the bottle of whiskey with an expression just short of longing. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose if I'm not driving anymore tonight..."

He huffed. "As I said, if it is expedient you may use my guest room…for this one night only."

That infernal smile again. "Then I accept."

With a deft hand, he poured out, and set her mug in front of her. He watched as she performed a quick, but thorough scan of the contents in her cup. He smirked, his mood lifting at her discomfiture.

She winced. "I'm sorry. I know it's rude, but I've been an auror for twenty years now. I'm pretty incapable of consuming anything that I haven't scanned." She paused, tilted her head. "I'd bet you still scan everything you have not prepared yourself as well."

He nodded, an enigmatic look on his face, and gestured to her cup. "Be that as it may, you'll not find anything there."

"No, apparently not. Thank you for the tea, and for not putting anything into it. After my sudden appearance, I'd expect that it was…tempting."

"Indeed. Your scanning my cup, I did not mind." He nodded to her, drinking deeply from his cup, and gesturing her to hers. "Your being here in the first place? That, I do mind."

She sighed. "I can see that. And I'm sorry for it. For what that's worth."

He restrained himself from rolling his eyes, and decided it was time, past time, to begin real conversation. "So, now that my duty as host is complete, you may do your duty as guest. Regale me with the story of your journey. In particular, I wish to know how, exactly, you've come to be here."

The witch nodded her willingness to tell him, and finally took a careful sip of her tea. It was hot, and delicious, and seemed to warm her bones. "Oh, that's really delicious. Wow. Okay. How did I arrive here…Once I knew there might be a you to look for? I found the first clue at the Foreign Exchange desk. I had a colleague look into the weeks after the final battle. Exchanges between Galleons and Dollars are fairly rare. And the name, well, it stood out."

He sipped from his mug, thoughtful. "So you followed Tobias Evans. And when he disappeared?"

"I followed the truck."

He grimaced. "I knew keeping it was a risk. Teach me to be sentimental."

"You were sentimental for a truck?"

"Mrs. Weasley, there have been very few things in my life that have afforded me the freedom that truck did." He looked down at his watch. And looked pointedly at her. "Sentiment clouds the judgment of even the best of us."

"That it does." She smiled ruefully, drank a little deeper from her cup. "Is it really so bad that I've found you?"

He sniffed. "That, Mrs. Weasley, remains to be seen. You picked an infernal night to make the trek up the mountain."

She looked out at the rain battering the front window. "I certainly did. This is quite a storm. And that was quite a welcome you gave me."

"Sneak up on a Slytherin? You are lucky indeed that I was…relaxed. Else you would have been dead before you could have reacted."

She snorted. "Sneak up on you? In my unwarded rental car? Please. I felt your wards half a mile down the drive. You had to have known I was coming."

"I assumed you were a neighbor."

"In this storm?"

He shrugged, an elegant movement that made his shirt gape at the neck. Hermione did her best to push aside the involuntary reaction at that glimpse of skin. _Down Girl._ She was being ridiculous. She'd already seen much more than that small bare triangle upon her arrival. _And it had been well worth seeing,_ her traitorous brain supplied.

"Well then, thank you for not killing me. Or not attempting to, anyway." She narrowed her eyes. "I am not as easy to kill as you think. Not anymore. I was fully protected, even at the moment your wand was drilling into my jugular. It doesn't last long, but it's a lovely little protective spell I've been working on for the past four years. I'll show you, if you like. As a thank you, of course, for letting me wait out the storm in your home."

He shrugged again, though his curiosity was piqued. Again he checked his watch. This time he smiled. "I will not say that it is my pleasure, for you know that would not be true. But providing you temporary shelter offers me no great discomfort. So tell me, Mrs. Weasley, why is it that you have come to seek me out?"

"I needed to know if you were really alive or not. Do you always compulsively check your watch?"

"Only when I am timing something. So it was curiosity that drew you to find me? Simple as that?"

She snorted. "I'd ask you what you are timing, but I'm certain you would have told me if you had any inclination to do so." She waited for confirmation. When none came, she sighed. "As to my curiosity, I wouldn't call it simple. I spent four years obsessively researching you and recreating your path."

He winged an eyebrow up. "Obsessively?"

She frowned, and did another scan of the contents of her cup. She obviously hadn't meant to say that. But despite her obvious discomfiture, she answered his question.

"Yes, Obsessively. After Ron died, you were the only thing I was interested in other than work. Nothing else mattered. Regular life was grey and endless, and thinking about finding you was my only motivation to get up in the morning." She frowned again, then raised her sharp amber eyes to his. "And am I correct that there is some variant of veritaserum in my tea?"

A feral smile slid over his hawkish features. "Once again, your great intellect examines the evidence and arrives at the wrong conclusion. Were it veritaserum in any of its forms, your scan would have detected the potion. However, your tea has been…enhanced. I assure you, as the potion is of my own creation, it is not only far subtler, but far superior to the original. Undetectable, longer lasting, and with fewer side effects."

She blew out her breath and muttered as if to herself. "I don't know why I'm surprised. I've interrupted your life with no warning. Of course you'd want to ask me questions and know the veracity of the answers. My miscalculation." she looked up with bland eyes. "I'd gotten accustomed to thinking of you as an ally, someone who could be trusted."

His smile shifted, becoming both unrepentant, and strangely compelling. "And there's your second error. You can trust me, Mrs. Weasley, only so far as your interests do not run counter to mine. I'm through living my life for the needs of others. In this case…well, I must determine what those interests may be."

"And if I leave this house now and climb into my car?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "I will not stop you." He leaned to her, his face all compelling intensity and sharp lines. "But you won't go. You are easily as curious about me, if not more so, as I am of your motivations. So, ally, I will endeavor to answer your questions, quid pro quo, with those of mine that you answer."

"And how will I know you've told the truth?"

His unrepentant grin erupted again. "You will have to trust me."

Hermione ran her right hand through her hair, aware as she did so that her smoothing spell collapsed, sending her hair into its more usual cloud of frizz. She slumped back in her chair. "Fine."

"Ah," he said, taking a sip of his tea. "That is better. You look too unlike yourself without your nimbus."

"My nimbus?"

"When I taught you I always thought of that nest of hair as a nimbus around your head. It was the one thing about your swotty teenaged self that I actually liked."

"You liked my hair? Are you serious?"

Smirk. "You'll just have to wonder if I'm serious or not. But that makes it my turn for a question. Tell me, oh auror-with-the-magically-smoothed-hair, what was it that fueled your self proclaimed obsession to find me?"

She sighed. "Fine. I'll tell you what you want to know. From second year on, I believed in you, believed you were on our side. All the way until Dumbledore's death, my gut told me that you were with us. And then I wavered in the face of the evidence… even then something inside of me knew. I felt it in my gut. And then I discovered the truth and, what you went through…it was all so unfair. I felt so much…"

"Gods save me from Gryffindor guilt. It's amazing that any of you can navigate the world with your penchant for doing exactly what you wish and then feeling guilty afterwards. What else?"

Hermione squirmed, "Well, you were brilliant, so obviously brilliant, I mean look at this serum you've given me, it's amazing. And I've always responded to brilliance…"

"Hmmm. Yes, you would. What else? There's something else because your foot pattern indicates you are trying to use distractive obfuscation to keep yourself from thinking about what you'd rather not say. This serum won't allow that for long. Another of its advantages over its progenitor. You'd best spit out whatever you are trying not to articulate before you give yourself a palsy."

Hermione scowled. "You are a bastard."

He tisked, utterly enjoying himself now. "Precision, please, Mrs. Weasley. My parents, although lamentable, were indeed married before they created my person. What other motivation did you have to find me?"

"I had…feelings."

"Ah. Feelings. Now we get to the meat of it. What sort of feelings did you feel for me?"

The sound he heard was Hermione grinding her teeth. "Attraction."

"What sort of attraction?"

"Don't be daft. I was a child, you were my teacher. It was a crush."

"A purely platonic crush, was it?"

"When I was little, yes."

"And when you were older?"

She glared at him and clenched.

"Come now, Mrs. Weasley, you shouldn't undo all your parent's good orthodontic work. The serum I gave you will not allow evasion. Unlike veritaserum, you will tell me what I want to know, no matter how much you delay. I can see it bubbling up inside you already…So. What sort of attraction did you feel for me when you were older?"

She sighed, and put her head down, mumbling into her arm.

He lifted her head up. She noted that his hand was warm and smelled pleasantly of rain. "Ah, yes, Auror technique number 3 of 7 for evading veritaserum. I assure you, speaking inaudibly will not work either. Though it was a nice attempt. And before you try them, nor will techniques 4-7. So you may as well go ahead and spit out. You will, shortly, feel compelled to repeat yourself until I can hear it. "

"I said, sexual attraction, you arsehole." She threw her hands up in the air in capitualation. "I had dreams about you, okay? I wanted you. Before I knew what it meant to want."

He smiled. "There now. That wasn't so hard, was it? You are reporting the feelings during your early post-pubescence for an authority figure that, believe me, are not unique. Rarely a year went by that I didn't have some innocent or other offering me their virginity on a platter. Revolting." He shuddered, placing a dramatic hand to his brow. "The trauma lingers."

He reached over, unpeeled her clenched fingers from her cup, and set about refilling it.

She grumbled. "If you found it so traumatic, I fail to see why you had to push me so hard to articulate it."

"I am interested in your motivations, Mrs. Weasley, that is all. And your discomfort…soothes my injured privacy."

She huffed an unwilling laugh. "Well that's honest. You legitimate bastard."

Unoffended, he shrugged, but his lips seemed to curve slightly upward.

"Okay." She said, determined to get into the game. "My turn now."

He rather liked the way her eyes narrowed as she took her turn as inquisitor.

"Very well."

"How on earth did you survive that night?"

"If you are referring to my spectacular near-death experience in the boat house, I had long been inoculating myself against Nagini's venom."

"I figured that. But the blood loss. It was…"

"Spectacular, yes? Thankfully my carotid was nicked, but not completely severed, elsewise I should have died before any chance of recovery. As it was, it was a near thing. Blood loss is a rather seductive way to die. I did for a moment consider letting my consciousness slide out in that river of blood. But then I had a change of mind, and decided that I wanted to live after all. Wand in hand, I was able to staunch the bleeding, and just enough power was left in me to summon blood replenishment serum from my stores."

They sat for a moment, as she allowed the enormity of his experience to permeate her awareness. That he could have survived at all was a monument not only to his skills as a potioneer, and the depth of his magical reserves, but also the tenacity of his will. No wonder she had always admired the snarky git.

"And now, I feel it's time to return to you, dear Mrs. Weasley."

"Lucky me."

"Indeed. Now that we have established your motivations for finding me, let's discuss your intention going forward. Whom do you plan to inform of my whereabouts?"

"Harry, of course."

"Of course you'd tell the spectacled menace. Does he know that you are here?"

"He knows that I came to California to find you. I only just got the "where" specifics myself."

"And whom else do you plan to inform of my existence?"

Hermione blinked. "Nobody. I assume that if you wanted people to know where you were, or even that you are alive, you would have done so. I have no interest in blowing your cover."

He paused at that. It was…unexpected."

"And your superiors at work?"

"Officially, I am investigating a ring of adulterated potions ingredients, which I shall, after this."

"Ah, yes, Yu Ming."

"Yu Ming? I was looking at the Eastwind Imports."

"Then you are looking in the wrong place, I assure you. I have purchased from both establishments, and found Eastwind to be within acceptable standards, while Yu Ming is not. Purposefully so, I might add."

"Well, that's rather despicable."

"It is. I briefly considered burning the organization to the ground myself, on principal of course, but I refrained. I'll leave the enforcement of laws to those who make them."

"Thanks for that, I think. I'll check that out after I leave here."

"Please do. Some of their contaminants could be deadly in the wrong hands. Now, returning to my future, what of all those people you enlisted to find me?"

"What about them?"

"Are they likely to come knocking?"

"No. I never let any person know precisely for whom I was looking. I showed pictures to a couple of people in the early days, but I obliviated the memory."

He felt another wave of stress drop from his shoulders. There would be no deluge of unwanted visitors then. More relaxed, he could now sit back in his chair and examined the woman in front of him. He'd not been lying when he'd said he'd always rather liked the chaos of her hair. She'd been a delicate looking thing as a child, though that appearance had belied the dogged strength she'd displayed during her days at Potter's side. He'd quite admired that about her then. He found now, that though her features had changed very little, his perception of her had changed further. Their physically combative reintroduction meant that he could not see her as delicate, despite her build. He saw her, instead, as feminine, but strong, a combination that had always quite been his weakness.

She was too lean, of course, and there were purple shadows under her eyes, as if there was a hunger in her that had too long gone unaddressed. But rather than lessen his interest, that air of vulnerability made him want to…feed her. In more ways than one. Interesting.

A flash of lightning crashed nearby, and they were plunged into relative darkness. Snape sighed, and a moment later the sound of a generator began to hum in the background.

"Will the lights come back on?"

"Not until power is restored. The generator powers climate control, refrigerator, and hot tub only. I am comfortable in the dark. But here." He said, waiving his wand in a semicircle. Candles, nestled here and there about the room, jumped to life.

While together, they made the room quite as light as his incandescents, the candles seemed to bring the storm in closer, so that Hermione was suddenly aware of the pounding of the rain in a way that she hadn't been previously.

"Thank you," she said, though she was quite unsure that the solution in question was entirely to her benefit. In addition to bringing the storm in closer, the candles seemed to close the distance between her and her companion. No. Interrogator.

He pushed the plate of biscuits across the table towards her, a strange look of intensity on his face, as if her taking one was important to him. He'd probably drugged it in some way.

Hermione shrugged, took one, and put the whole thing in her mouth. It was rich, crisp and delicious. She closed her eyes for a moment, chewed, and swallowed.

She opened her eyes, and reached for another.

In for a penny…

SSSS

AN: I apologize for breaking in the middle of this scene. It was either finish the scene, which could use some additional polishing, or publish today. Since I promised updates on Sundays and Thursdays, I have opted for the latter. So here is part one, on time, if not in its entirety.

Thank you for those who have tackled the meaty territory of gender equality in your review. Keep those comments coming; I've already made several adjustments thanks to your thoughts!

And thank you, all of you for reading and reviewing, and gifting me with your thoughts about where we should go. While the plot is fairly fixed, there is definitely room for things to shift around in tone and detail.

Warmly, Theolyn.


	4. Tea (part two)

She rather liked the feeling of this. The whiskey in her cup (She'd given up the pretense of tea entirely.) The rain outside, the warmth of the fire. The flicker of the candlelight. Even her snarky, sexy interrogator seemed to be mellowing as the evening progressed.

"So, you're an Auror are you?"

She nodded.

"Then tell me, Mrs. Weasley, have there been any new dark wizards to keep the ministry busy?"

Hermione sniffed. "You might as well call me Hermione since we appear to be getting to know each other." She took a slice of persimmon from the tray and crunched into it. "Nice. Though you didn't have to drug me for this conversation." The serum began to tap tap tap on her subconscious, though she wasn't at all averse to answering. "Dammit, yes, there are periodically pretenders to the dark throne. They haven't come to much. Harry runs a tight ship."

It was Snape's turn to roll his eyes. "Minister of Magic already is he?"

"No. Though the position was offered to him. Twice. Harry was never as power hungry or venial as you'd painted him."

He snorted, but was willing to give somewhat on this topic. The intervening years had given him some perspective on his Potter ambivalence. "I have concluded that some of my perceptions about Potter may have been somewhat…displaced during your childhood. Nonetheless, I'll not rush to claim his friendship."

"Well, I don't think he has any expectations in that direction. Though Harry's perceptions of you were drastically impacted by what he saw in the Pensive. He's become quite fond of you since. "

He went suddenly still and tense. He lifted his eyes to hers.

"And you? What did you think of my memories?"

"I didn't see them." She seemed shocked by the very suggestion. "Harry wouldn't allow anyone to see them. He was very clear that they were private. He knew you were alive, you see, and he wanted to return them to you. He's kept them all these years. I can send them to you once I return home."

He lifted an eyebrow. "I've rather enjoyed not having them. But I am grateful that he has not yet chosen to splay my most personal experiences about for all and sundry to watch."

"Harry would never do that. He was…honored that you chose to share them with him."

He humphed, more reflexively then out of real disagreement. "Believe me, I would not have, had there been another choice available to me."

"I can imagine. And so can Harry. Hence the fact that he's protected your memories all this time. Harry's quite thoughtful, you know. Now. And responsible. He runs the department of magical law enforcement, and he's really gotten things into shape."

Snape snorted. "You mean, you've gotten things into shape for him don't you? Even with my new perspective, Potter was mind-numbingly average when you weren't there to shepherd him. The only moments of brilliance he ever displayed were yours. "

Not sure whether to be flattered or infuriated, she huffed a laugh.

"Actually, that wasn't true then, and it is even less true now. There was always more to Harry than you could see. He's a mixture of both his parents, you know. And he's _improved_ since you knew him. Surely you of all people understand how saving the world doesn't always bring out the best in one."

Severus shrugged noncommittally. "I was never attempting to save the world. Just attempting to keep one loathsome child alive despite his best efforts."

"Well, be that as it may, that burden didn't make you a happy boy, now did it?"

"I was never a "happy boy" Mrs. Weasley, even when I was a boy."

The truth to that statement seemed to echo, and hang in the room for a moment before dissipating.

"I'm sorry for that. But you're happy now, aren't you, well, not at this moment, but in general. Here. In this life."

He raised an eyebrow. "Upon what do you base that supposition?"

She looked at him, the lines on his face, laugh lines, some of them, so different than the worry lines that had creased his younger visage. His hand, unconsciously stroking the head of his obviously devoted dog. The carefully selected beauty of every item on her tea set. Everything in his house, really. Everything spoke to deep contentment.

"It's a happy house. It feels loved."

He was surprised by her insight. But not unpleased.

"Anyway, Harry's different since the war's end. And fatherhood has mellowed him further."

Severus snorted, and took a sip of his own tea. "Potter, a father. Well, that's a terrifying notion. And how many boorish little Potters have been unleashed on the world?"

Hermione smiled. "Two. James Sirius, and Albus Severus."

Snape's tea went right up his nose, and he began to cough. Hermione helpfully, and none too gently, pounded him on the back.

With watering eyes, he looked up at her, "Albus Severus? Good Merlin, does he hate his child so much?"

Hermione laughed, and realized to her own surprise that she was quite enjoying herself. Despite being drugged, despite her uncomfortable physical reaction to him, despite his initial semi-hostility, she was enjoying Severus's company. "It's a mouthful, I'll grant you, but he tells his son all the time that he's named for Hogwarts' greatest headmaster, and the bravest man he ever knew."

Snape sat back in his chair and blinked. Twice. Then the expression of disdain descended like a veil over his features. "How saccharine. And you? Is your home filled with little Weasleys?"

Unbeknownst to her, a visible shadow of pain flowed through Hermione's amber eyes before disappearing. Snape noted it without effort.

"Not a one." She said, her voice carefully neutral. "We tried for years. Used the usual potions. And muggle means as well. IVF. Courses and courses of it. Healers couldn't explain it. But it simply never happened for us. It seems motherhood is not to be for me."

The pain that crept into her voice at that final admission was so primal that he found himself, almost, moved. He passed her another biscuit.

"And your husband died…"

"We were arresting a dark wizard. It never occurred to anyone that his 7 year old daughter would be proficient at unforgivables."

"Avada Kadavra?"

"Yes."

He nodded, making sure that his face remained neutral. "A painless death then."

"For him, yes."

Almost against his better judgment, he asked, "And for you?"

The witch smiled ruefully, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes. She took a single deep breath before opening them to stare into his.

"I had no idea the human heart could feel that much pain and go on beating. But it does, doesn't it?"

He answered without thinking. "Regretfully, it does."

"Do you regret it?" She lifted haunted amber eyes to his. "Surviving I mean?"

It was an intimate question. Too intimate. But strangely, he found that he wanted to answer. He ran a finger along the scar on his neck. "Surviving the war? No. My life here is simple, but it is beautiful. I call no man master. I walk upon land that is mine. I tend it. As you noted earlier, I am, in fact happy here. But surviving Lily Evan's death?" He let his eyes bore into hers. "That I would undo if I could."

She nodded. They both looked away, but the resulting silence was surprisingly comfortable.

At length, she spoke again. "How did you ever find this place? The registrar's website indicates Josiah Jones owns over 60 acres. This close to San Francisco that's got to be worth tens of millions of dollars."

Snape's eyes grew distant and unfocused. "In monetary value, yes. To me, its worth is beyond that. I learned of this parcel during the later days of Hogwarts' occupation. I was struggling to keep the Carrows' suspicions at bay, while simultaneously ensuring that the harm they wrought upon the student body was non-fatal, and all the while I was wracking my brains to try to discover where 3 students in a borrowed tent might be hiding. When Phineous found you, I ran at once to the sword's hiding place. Wrapped around its hilt were two deeds of transfer for this parcel, one with my name listed as owner, and a magical copy awaiting the inscription of whichever false name I might choose. It seems that Dumbledore actually believed I might survive the coming conflagration, and that once it was complete, I might enjoy withdrawing entirely from the wizarding world.

"Up until then, I'd had little thought towards my own survival. But I found myself unwittingly curious about the described 'mountain cottage with sixty acres of redwood, oak and laurel forest' that he'd purchased for me. And so, as I lay dying, in a pool of my own blood, and wretched venom, I decided that I should see it once before my life ended. And so, I saved myself, and came here as I was able. And what are you smiling about?"

"He was a manipulative, canny old bastard, wasn't he?"

"Albus?" Severus snorted. "On that, at least we can agree."

"Oh, I should think that we agree on many things."

"I should think not."

Hermione simply grinned at him.

She was cheeky, this grown up Granger. He had to admit, he quite liked it. Though her annoyance at his perfidy had been real, she hadn't allowed it to make her glum or unpleasant. Other than occasionally hurling invective at him, which caused him neither concern nor discomfort. Instead, he found himself quite…intrigued.

Of course, he'd not had female companionship since he'd broken up with Ramona two years ago. But he knew himself too well to entertain the notion that his interest was simply the result of being shut up on a cold wet night with an attractive female. Where it only that, well, it would be easily scratched. But this was something else. She wasn't…prey, this one. She was sharp and powerful, and unless he'd misread her, deadly. His eyes turned sly.

Hermione did not miss the shift in his expression. "Uh-Oh. I don't like that look that you are giving me. What does that mean?"

"Mean? Nothing, I assure you. Would you like some tea in your whiskey?"

Hermione's response was tart. "Will this be serum free?"

Snape smirked, "As the serum you have already ingested will remain potent for two more hours, I can't see why it shouldn't be."

"Two more hours?" She fell, laughing, back into her chair. "You know, I'm torn between fury, and religious awe at your ruddy genius in inventing this stuff. "

He felt a rush of pleasure at her words, but did his best not to allow it to warm his voice. "Either reaction is fine with me, I'm sure. So, tell me, Mrs. Weasley. Do you care to share your adolescent fantasies about me?"

"What?" She flushed, most charmingly, he thought. "No! I most definitely not."

"Pity."

She'd always known her curiosity would get her into real trouble one of these days.

"Why do you ask?"

He smirked and changed the subject.

"My truth serum, as you have discovered, is more potent, longer lasting than the original, and virtually undetectable. It is shelf-stable, and thus can be made in larger batches than its inferior cousin. But it is, in all other ways, indistinguishable from veritaserum. While it subverts the will when it comes to the human habit of untruth, it in no way impacts any other aspect of free will."

Hermione blinked. "Okay. And you're telling me this why?"

"I am telling you this because I am about to give you a choice, and I do not wish you to wonder at any later date whether or not that choice was compromised by what you had ingested."

She thought for a second, digested his words. "Fair enough. I feel lucid and in control of my faculties. Except for the lying, of course."

"Of course. You have invested two years of your free time following a quixotic quest of wish fulfillment and adolescent lust to my home. Are you going to follow that quest to its conclusion?"

"You're here, alive, flourishing, obviously, and I've seen you. I'm fairly certain that counts as quest accompli."

"Ah. Perhaps of the goals your conscious mind set for you. But what about the objectives of your subconscious mind?"

"I don't understand." Her foot began to jangle.

"Apparently," he said, gesturing it, "you do."

"Dammit, I think I understand where you're going and I don't like it." Her foot popped around like a pogo stick. She growled. She did know where this was heading, and she was afraid that she liked it very much. "Goddamn it. I don't want to like it. Stupid serum."

"Yes. Well, let me make my offer clear before you dislocate your foot by tripping over your tongue. You are here, in the warmth of my kitchen. The rain is pounding on the walls outside. I am here, very much alive, and standing before you. You have asked me your questions. You have slaked your curiosity. But I am offering...a deeper knowledge."

Hermione kept her lips pressed shut, trying to swallow the saliva that was suddenly pooling in her mouth. That voice. It was more dangerous than a wand.

"You stand here, a woman grown, and a widow. Tell me… now that you see me again, do you still feel attraction for me?"

Hermione sighed and closed her eyes. "Merlin help me, you drugging snarky git, but I do." They snapped back open again, full of annoyance. "And you know it."

"I would hope that by this stage in life I would have a fair sense of when a woman is attracted to me, and when she isn't. So yes, I have been aware of your…reaction to me since our first contact in the rain."

"Well, bully for you."

He smirked. "Perhaps. Now, let me assure you, that whereas in our last encounter, I found you the most annoying swot ever to aid the son of my mortal enemy…"

"As you made abundantly clear."

"Did I?" He said, his words full of honeyed amusement. "Then let me make this equally clear." He walked around the table to stand behind her. "I now find you an enjoyable conversationalist, and a surprisingly attractive woman." He lowered his voice, so that the sound of it was barely a caress on the warm skin on the back of her neck. "Much to my surprise, I have discovered that I want you as well."

She froze, the sound of his voice dripping over her shoulder like molten honey. When she found her voice, all she could croak out was:

"Oh, gods."

"No gods. Only the two of us." He turned her around so he could look into her eyes. "I could play this out, romance you, allow you to feel seduced. But I find the idea of that ruse…distasteful. You are a woman of intelligence. And we are unattached adults, with a mutual attraction, in the dark, in a storm of mythic proportions. Other than one rather indiscriminate dog, there is no one here to cast judgment on any choices we might make."

She blinked. Her body was frozen in place. Her brain was spinning. When had this evening spiraled so out of control? When he'd drugged her? When she'd disarmed him? When he'd pressed her body into the side of her car with all that beautiful satiny skin?

"I can hear the gears in your head turning, Mrs. Weasley." He reached out to take one of her curls between his thumb and forefinger, and smiled absently.

Later, she'd watch the memory in the pensive, and realize it was that absent smile, so full of…affection that decided her. But in the moment, it took another or moment or two for that decision to filter up from her subconscious.

"Call me Hermione."

"Very well, Hermione. I have made my offer. And I find myself unwittingly fascinated: What will your choice be? Head back into the cold rain like a coward? Or will you summon your Gryffindor courage… and come to my bed?" He lifted the curl to his face and breathed in the scent of it, as if the smell of it were a delicious thing.

Like someone waking from a dream, Hermione found herself stumbling to her feet. Goddamn it. Why shouldn't she take what he was offering? Why shouldn't she allow herself this opportunity feel alive again? There surely were reasons…but she could not think of a one of them. And there was nothing she loved more than a challenge. He probably knew that, the bastard.

"This is the wrong choice," she said, aware, now, that her decision was made.

"Perhaps." He answered, his matte eyes suddenly sparking.

Her voice gained clarity. "And I'm entirely sure that I'm going to regret this."

"Without a doubt" he purred at her.

The smile that spread over Hermione's face was sharp and feral. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

The smile that spread over his features was an exact replica of hers.

"Gryffindor to the last" he said, putting his hands to her shoulders and drawing her closer.

"You bet I am." She said, and, laughing, pulled his mouth to hers.

SSSS

AN: Sorry for the delay in posting. Stomach flu threw me for a loop this week. But here we are. And we have Lemons!

Earlier I had one of you comment on the fact that I have shamelessly stolen from myself, by lifting context for this story from my earlier work, Snape's Oceans. I wanted to acknowledge that fact. The way I see it, this story occurs in the same alternate reality as that story, only with a few different circumstances. Unlike in Oceans, this Severus received no ghostly pardon, instead, he has made the peace he has himself. As a result, he is not quite so healed as the Snape in Oceans. He retains more of his Slytheriness. He is a pricklier partner I think. But this Hermione too is different. Her life has been a bit less idyllic, and she is a bit rougher around the edges. I think they will be a good match for each other.


End file.
